My Dark Corner
by Red Dragon10
Summary: Stephen the Irishman stands with Hamish as the dead body of his best friend is drawn and quartered. The guilt crushes him. One-shot. Insight into the enigma Stephen.


**My Dark Corner  
  
Disclaimer: Alas, I don't own William Wallace, or Scotland, or Braveheart, or the lovely Stephen.  
  
AUTHOR NOTE: Well, I watched 'Braveheart' again after not having seen it for many years, and the character of Stephen [the crazy Irishman] really jumped out at me, more than any other. I thought there was a lot unsaid about him, and so this one-shot was born!!   
  
**After the beheading, Hamish and I remained, paralysed. We didn't notice the uneasy silence of the crowd, didn't sense the discomfort at having seen an unbroken man executed. We stood, among the slowly dispersing crowd - who, I would later recall, moved like zombies - frozen by the knowledge that our great leader, our friend, was gone. I hadn't saved him. I hadn't died instead of him. What did I have to ease my guilt? Who did I have, waiting for me in Ireland? My family was long dead, and the one woman I ever loved had been butchered like so many others.   
  
But William. William had love left in him still; I did not miss the hunger lingering in his eyes as that wagon had pulled the princess of Wales out of his reach. William wanted peace, and a home, and all the things that I had long since forsaken. William had reason to live, and I did not.   
  
I had not, perhaps, realised - until with his dying breath he had screamed 'Freedom'- the depth of his convictions. I had not fought for Scotland, as he had. I had come to fight the English, to avenge my family and the woman who haunted my dreams, but I had ended up fighting for William. I had made it my personal duty to watch his back, because I knew he was too focused on his dream to watch his own. And now he was gone.  
  
Hamish was the first to break out of his reverie. And why not? Had he not tried to stop William from going? Did he not have that shred of peace to banish his guilt? He had stepped forward, and I had followed unconsciously. He had walked to the stage of the execution, still slick with blood, and I had come with him. He had sobbed beneath his hood and I had come awake again, pushed back the unspoken feelings to their dark corner, to grip his shoulder. He paid me no heed. The court was empty now, save a few guards, who watched us lazily through their loud conversing. And I had seen it.  
  
The crumpled embroidered cloth, so dear to William, was in my hand, and I turned the barely recognisable material over to squint at the embroidery. Hamish had not moved. My hand came away from the possession wet and red, and the sight of it threatened to arouse the hidden feelings again. I quashed them, and slipped the material inside my sleeve. For some reason I wished to keep it for myself, to keep this thing from Hamish, he who had shared so much more with William than I. He who had known William in times of peace. I grudged him for that now, and so I kept the precious thing to myself.   
  
How we made our way out of the city unnoticed; how we found our horses tethered in the shadow of the trees; how we made our way back to the camp; all of these things were a mystery to me. Hamish did not speak, and nor did I break the silence. The sky had darkened with cloud, and when it rained, neither of us increased our speed.   
  
Those at the camp already knew. No one approached us; as we reached the shelter of the trees outside the camp, Hamish and I went our separate ways: he, to the village, I, to the lonely hills; there, I could be in Ireland again.  
  
I had stayed there, perhaps for weeks. I cut myself off from the Scots, and the sound of laughter, and the damning funeral that was sure to be held. I shivered without knowing, eating pathetic things such as rabbit and bird, unable to will myself to hunt for something better.  
  
And most of all, the guilt was crushing. The highlands, the towering silver cliffs and silent lush groves, gazed gravely at me as I rode by in internal agony. Only when I fell into restless sleep, curled against the uncaring stone, did the tears come, years of pain coursing down my face and leaving only dirty trails as proof of their existence in the morning.   
  
God was silent, yet still I begged him to strike me down. _I'll see you after_ echoes in my head. _Sooner rather than later, I hope._ I had known, even then, that William was walking to his death. I had stared at my horse, had thought of riding after him, to save him as I always had, and something had stopped me. Not this time, I had thought. I can't always be interfering. Let him be. And that had been my mistake, hadn't it? William was clever on the battlefield; far cleverer than I. But he had not a twig of sense when it came to trust, which was something I had always had. He had trusted _me._ He had trusted Faudron, he had trusted the Bruce, he had trusted the nobles, he had trusted the Princess. Leaders had to trust, I knew, or one day you would turn and find no army behind you. But he should not have trusted me. Were I a braver man...but I am not, and it is too late.  
  
I reached inside my sleeve one night, as the sun faded into pink and purple haze above the hills, to retrieve the embroidered cloth. Tiny thistles adorned it. Murron. I had heard only snatches about her, William's fair wife, murdered by the English. So like Meghan. But unlike William, I had never had the chance to make Meghan my wife; only stolen kisses and the memory of her porcelain hand in my black hair remained. Her gray eyes, like a fine Irish sky; her hair, silky and long and red as a misty sunrise. I push the image of her stripped and mangled body into that unspeakable dark place that blankets so much of my mind. The cloth is clenched in my hand now, and I slip into my shadowed sleep, one hand on my dagger, the other gripping the cloth of memories that are not mine.  
  
On the morrow, I leave for William's village. The tears of my sorrow have long since dried, and I arrive by mid-day. People greet me like a dead man, subtle nods of acknowledgement, pats to my mare as I pass, a hand on my knee. Hamish is waiting, and in his face there is no anger. I start as I see the hilt of William's sword above his shoulder, but William would have liked his old friend to have it.   
  
'Welcome back,' comes his gruff words, and he doesn't need to ask why I stayed away. He grips my forearm when I dismount, and I see the tears, deep in the wells of his eyes, but he reins them back and hugs me as a best friend. 'You're stayin' here, now, Stephen.' he says, but his eyes turn to the hills. 'None of this 'my island' shit.'  
  
'Aye.' I dismiss the insult, and finger the cloth up my sleeve. 'And what do I do here?' I try to forget that I have nothing in Ireland either.   
  
'You'll live, you bastard! And you won't get yourself killed either,' comes his fierce voice, as though that settles it. In spite of my sorrow, I grin at him, but he doesn't see it, his eyes still focused on the ancient hills.  
  
'No?'  
  
'No.'  
  
At last his eyes turn to mine, and I see the same desperation that I know to linger in my own. _Not you too. Not after William.  
_  
'The Bruce is to be king,' he says at last, contempt bitter in his voice.  
  
'Bruce did not want William dead, Hamish.' He knows this, but he scowls anyway. My hand is still on the material just inside my sleeve.  
  
'I won't be paying homage to some king like all the others! I won't stand behind a betrayer.' Behind his hard words, hurt lies. My fingers rub the delicate embroidery of the cloth, and I remember Craig's words: _It's the pledge of Robert the Bruce.  
_  
'Nor I. But Bruce will not be like all the others.'   
  
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The Clan's will go to Bannockburn in a week's time. And I will give the thistle embroidery to the Bruce. Perhaps the ragged, bloodied material will remind him of William's bravery, and bolster his own.   
  
As for me; I will stay here among the Scottish, for a time. I have not told Hamish this. Ireland will call me back, one day. My Ireland. One day, I'll say 'I'll see you after,' a last time. One day, I'll ride out, turning blue eyes to the lonely hills, my mind tucking the black memories of fair Scotland into that secret corner, and I'll never look back.

**Please, please review!! Nothing else makes me happier...**


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